I Woke Up

A friend told me this story a day or so ago. Her friend posted the following on Facebook: "Tell me something good that happened to you today (No matter how small it may seem)" Hope you can find it.”

She answered,

“I woke up.”

So much we take for granted, fail to appreciate, especially in the time of Covid. Starting with waking up, then fresh air. I’ve tutored Chinese UC post grad students, helping them learn conversational English. I asked one of them, “What are the three things you like best about America?” Number one, mentioned by a student from Beijing, was “clean air.” (FYI. The other two were “There’s no one here; the streets are empty”, and third, “the people are so friendly.”)

It hit a little closer to home last fall when a night of lightning strikes set thousands of acres of California on fire, culminating in the following sunrise.

My Christmas gift from my three kids was a Purple Air Sensor, which I’ve put outside, joining thousands of others who are participating in the Purple Air Map, revealing the air quality all across America at any given time. Instead of typing this I could be outside, enjoying fresh clean air. But I’m at my keyboard, giving thanks for 13.

I woke up, yes, and I was able to get out of bed, brew six cups of Peet’s Major Dickason dark roast coffee, raise the thermostat from 63 to 67, remove a small container of Horizon Organic Heavy Whipping Cream from the refrigerator, go outside, pick up the Sunday SF Chronicle, then return to a warm house with the first of two hot cups of coffee with cream, remove my iPad from its charger and promptly lose a game of Words With Friends. All common repeatable expreriences…until they’re not, until something unexpected strikes. For Jason’s friend Bill it was possibly a stroke or massive heart attack that fell him last week when he was riding a mountain bike with his eleven year old son, for my former neighbor and friend Bob Becklund, whose story in my blog appears two below this one, it was the accumulation of days and nights, about eighty-five years worth.

But I woke up.

I see myself as the man in the museum, staring at and trying to make sense, derive meaning, and learning to appreciate my canvas, my life.

I woke up, and for that I am grateful. I ate one of Jadyne’s freshly-baked cookies. I was able to walk four and a half-miles through the quiet streets and hills of Berkeley. I returned to a warm house, removed a small red Fuji apple from the refrigerator, a little Camembert Cheese from Costco, sliced the apple and the cheese, and ate them together in the warm house. I showered, washed my hair, put on freshly-cleaned clothes, and came upstairs where I began writing about all the quotidian events that make up my day, my life, and for the opportunity to do that, I am grateful. My friend Gail suggested that I keep a Gratitude Journal, entering a daily reason to be grateful. I haven’t done that, but after hearing “I woke up” I know I should.

Emily, a character in Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town”, visiting her twelfth birthday, asks the Stage Manager, “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute.?” The Stage Manager responds “except for perhaps the saints and the poets, maybe.” By implication the characters do not seem to value or make an emotional connection to the daily activities of their rather ordinary lives. The inhabitants of Grovers Corners often lack any sense of wonder at what passes before their lives every day.

Which brings me back to the beginning. “I woke up.” And all that follows is a bonus.

Kahlo-Calder-Picasso

It was fitting that after sixteen months of isolation, carry-out meals, and social distancing that our first venture away from 330 Rugby was to San Francisco’s De Young Museum to see two separate exhibitions—Frida Kahlo, followed by more than 100 paintings, drawings, and photographs of Alexander Calder and Pablo Picasso, an exhibition that was conceived and presented by grandsons of both artists.

First, Kahlo. I knew little about her before the exhibition, only that she was the wife of famous Mexican painter Diego Rivera, that she had become known and respected as an artist in her own right. I didn’t know that she had contracted polio as a child, or that at age 17 she had nearly died in a bus accident in Mexico City, that she had miscarried once, and that these themes returned to her time and again in her paintings, many of which were of herself, perhaps the first artist whose work centered on selfies.

One of the most dramatic paintings was commissioned by Clair Booth Luce, who after seeing the painting, found it so troubling that she wanted to destroy it. The subject is a dead socialite, a friend to both women, a troubled soul whose husband had lost so much money that she jumped out of an apartment building on the 16th floor. Kahlo painted her body with the flowing formal dress she had worn the night before.

Kahlo’s miscarriage showed up in the death mask on a small child.

Her damaged spine from the bus accident was reflected in the broken column and the punitive corset that supported a broken body.

The two Kahlos. Frida saw herself as an embodiment of both a male and a female. Her strong touching eyebrows and the faint mustache gave her a masculine appearance, and she explored the two Fridas in countless paintings.

Among the 100 pieces by Calder and Picasso was the following:

Nowhere is Picasso’s deconstruction more obvious than in the eleven sketches he made of a bull. In the final image the essence of the bull is revealed in one unbroken line.

Calder constructed, starting with space, adding lines, creating something from nothing. He was enamored of the jazz singer Josephine Baker. His wire sculpture is attached in such a way that a passing breeze sets her into fluid motion.

Again in the theme of deconstruction, Picasso’s painting of a girl in a red chair distills the essence of the title, and we are left with this:

In this final image Calder’s unmistakable mobile, a sculpture or “stabile” that both floats, spins, and stands is next to Picasso’s famous bull, a bicycle seat under handlebars. Two of my favorite artists. What a treat to see them together in this remarkable exhibition.

Bob

Bob Becklund died today. Shortly after eight his granddaughter Emma called his loving ex-wife Theresa, with the news. Theresa emailed Jadyne immediately. We knew within the hour.

Bob and Theresa were our next door neighbors on Dutton Avenue in Santa Rosa for many of the twenty-six years that we called Roseland “home.” They moved into what was a weed-infested lot with a decrepit house in front of which was an old Chevrolet, in such bad shape that when Bob called for a tow truck to take it away. parts of the Chevy fell off the hitch, covering Dutton Avenue with an axle, tires, and a transmission. Bob and Theresa turned the weed patch into a much more friendly and accessible weed patch. I gave him my broken Lawn Boy mower, and true to form he was able to repair it, then motivated by having a working power mower, dug up weeds in the back yard, planted grass, and invited me and Jadyne over for the inaugural “first cutting.” It might have been the last cutting, too, as the weeds were stronger than Bob’s will, and the mower went into retirement. The house was a different story. They remodeled it and made it possible to actually live in, to play ragtime piano in, and for Bob, a history instructor at the College of Marin, a place to work.

Bob and Theresa were the original “odd couple”, living proof that in some marriages age is irrelevant. At one point the four of us spanned four decades. Bob was fifty, I was forty, Jadyne was thirty-nine, and Theresa, twenty-five years younger than Bob, was twenty-four.

The May-December marriage eventually broke down, but the feelings between the two of them didn’t. Theresa wasn’t at his side when he passed, but he knew that she had returned in spirit. He squeezed her hand in the last days, as she reminded him how much she loved him. She passed to him our feelings, too, and he was able to recognize and understand the great respect and affection we had for him.

Here they are in happier times:

Bob, John, Theresa, and a mysterious gift certificate for egg rolls.

Both Bob and Theresa were kind and thoughtful beyond description. When Teeny died they were there for us, when our golden retriever was put to sleep Theresa built a little remembrance altar in our back yard with a candle on it, a final resting place for the ashes. Theresa’s sister Taffy was our most valued employee, a woman who was equally skilled at classical piano and violin. We hosted a compound, a family with Bob, Theresa, Taffy, Jadyne, and me.

Thirty-six years ago I wanted to celebrate our fifteenth anniversary. I bought Jadyne several gifts, tickets to see the Lettermen at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco, dinner reservations at the Tonga room in the Fairmont, and Bob and Theresa managed to procure what they thought was a limo, but was really a big Pontiac, and drove us down and back. Bob wore a tux. Theresa dressed to the nines, and the four of us headed to SF while Jadyne opened the anniversary gifts. I don’t know what Bob and Theresa did in San Francisco while we were celebrating, but they were the ones to offer this evening to us.

In an earlier blog post I wrote,

“Bob and Theresa were those rare Roseland residents and neighbors who spoke English as their native language. (After visiting Bob yesterday it’s hard to imagine getting by today without a command of Spanish). They were dear friends, and although we marveled that they could stay together we never questioned their affection for each other. Upon hearing an argument between me and Jadyne Bob once said, “I would be heartbroken if I ever heard Theresa talk to me the way you and Jadyne talked to each other.” Perhaps. But hearbreak followed. Theresa fancied herself an itinerant lesbian folksinger and took off for Europe on Bob’s credit card. Heartbreak followed heartbreak, and the two of them divorced. Theresa remarried and moved to Mendocino. Bob met Katie, and they continue to live together next to the house we lived in for twenty-six years.

We last saw Theresa ten years ago when we visited her in Mendocino. She opened a gift shop, which has since gone out of business.

Bob is eighty-four now. He and Katie still live next door to the house that we lived in for so many years. Angela lives there, too. She’s Bob’s full-time caregiver. We asked them about the neighbors, the current denizens of 1524 Dutton Avenue. He said, noise, violence, and drugs. It’s awful. Two years ago a Santa Rosa SWAT team escorted Bob and Katie out of their house as they trained submachine guns on a resident. A couple of days ago Bob overheard a scantily-clad neighbor offering to fuck another neighbor for $50.

Bob is a little forgetful. He didn’t remember the time he and Theresa took us to San Francisco. In fact, he couldn’t even remember Theresa. He said to Katie “…that woman I was married to a long time ago.” We didn’t know if he had forgotten or that he was just playing along. In either case, we were reminded of the passage of time and the changes that inevitably accompany it.

February, 2020. Bob and Katie at the Parkland Café

Katie left Bob sometime last year. His kids didn’t want to care for him in his dying days. His granddaughter Emma did. Theresa came back. R.I.P. Bob. We love you.

A Year and a Week

March 11, 2020. A day like every other day —except for one not so minor detail. A deadly virus in China had landed in the US of A. Kayleigh McEnany, Trump’s press secretary, had revealed two weeks earlier that that wouldn’t happen. “We will not see diseases like the coronavirus come here,” she said, “This president will always put America first, he will always protect American citizens,” she added. (A year later more than 538,000 have died.)

If Kayleigh had been right I wouldn’t be posting this photo,

My second Moderna vaccine shot, thirteen days ago.

Kayleigh’s ignorant comment notwithstanding, her President (not mine) revealed months earlier that he was aware that Covid-19 was deadly. He chose not to reveal what he knew because, as he said, “I didn’t want people to panic.”

Stay At Home orders were soon in place. SF Chronicle:

Instantly, our days changed. I was used to spending Fridays at the Berkeley Food Pantry, Thursday, delivering Meals on Wheels, Monday and Tuesday at the Berkeley Homeless shelter. Jadyne volunteered at the shelter with me, delivered meals on Thursday, and spent hours every week at the Turnabout Shop, a thrift store on San Pablo Avenue. In-beween we hosted Hawthorn, Susanto, and Isla for piano lessons. All ended in an instant.

Staying home, not seeing anyone, I looked forward to playing guitar. That is, until on 3/12 when I was pruning a bush in the yard, and after I pruned my finger, four stitches and a lot of pain ended that:

View fullsize

Eva, a little neighborhood girl, made a sign that’s still in our garage window.

“Let’s All Be Well” Indeed. We have been. We’re among the fortunate few who not only didn’t catch Covid-19, but didn’t know firsthand any of the millions who did.

The days came and went. I walked around the neighborhood, mask on, finding and clipping flowers, practicing a technique called “Focus Stacking.” I read. I played cards with Jadyne. I ate. I drank. Each day I tried to play guitar. I couldn’t.

And so life went on. Mr. Trump’s goal was to reopen the country by Easter. He went on camera and suggested that we drink bleach. Dr. Birx, his loyal doctor, cringed on camera as she heard him suggest that. The country isn’t open. And it still won’t be open on Easter—this Easter.

Jadyne and I were looking forward to our fiftieth wedding anniversary on June 13th, 2020, planning to host family at Gary Danko’s for dinner, then to a party at home, then three days at a ranch in the mountains. Jadyne even put on her mother’s wedding dress. So looking forward to such a big celebration!

Not exactly excited.

However, we were happily surprised by our family’s arrival on that Saturday, disappointed only in the cold five course meal that we had to carry out from a local restaurant. We haven’t been to a restaurant in a year. And we’re not planning on going to one soon.

With schools closed Jadyne and I became our own school in August, hosting our granddaughter Isla and her friend Ella, a one day a week rendezvous which has continued for the last eight months. Third graders with laptops, in touch with their teacher from time to time throughout the day. In between giggles, horseplay, indifference, boredom, and forays on the devices into verboten websites have been the order of business. We had no idea what lay ahead. Nobody did. Here was day #1 last August.

Summer came and went. In September we were “treated” to an incredible lightning storm that begat the worst fire season California had ever experienced. (If only we had raked the forests, as Mr. Trump admonished us to do).

And the skies, the orange and black darkness that descended on us one day in September.

10:32 am September 20th. Read that right? 10:32 a fucking m.

Jason, in the throes of a divorce from Rachel, moved to our house in October. After a court appearance in that month, our two grandchildren joined us for half custody. This has been a bright spot in our lives in what had been a pretty dismal year. They’re still here, and we’re still enjoying them. If anyone else would like to play “My Little Pony” with Hazel, I’m willing to give up Tempest Shadow…or Applejack, or Rainbow Dash.

Jason and Hazel ready for Halloween.

That leads us up to Thursday, March 18th. One more day and we’ll have officially arrived at the two week period following the second vaccination, a time when we will have achieved maximum immunity. Meanwhile only 11% of Californians enjoy the privilege. Jason hasn’t received his first. Jennifer has had her first. The vaccines are coming. Cases are dropping. ICU beds are now available. Against CDC warnings mayors and governors are dropping mask mandates, and the fear that we will see yet another surge is here.

At the beginning of the year 2020 Jadyne’s brother Greg was in a coma in a Denver hospital, with a disease that has never been diagnosed. He recovered, returned home, then was sequestered with Sean in Glenwood Springs, as forest fires threatened their home. They are home once again, remaining quarantined like the rest of us.

And in the meantime, beyond our simple little lives, Biden defeated Trump, who, by creating a story that the election was stolen, revealed that his drinking bleach comment was a high water moment in his intellectual prowess. Then two months ago, on the day that Biden’s vote count was tabulated, he directed an insurrection on the Capitol. Five people were killed. Trump was impeached for the second time.

And things that couldn’t get worse, did, and things that could get better, did. We’re on a roll.

The Lesson

Hazel’s hair has grown long enough for her to wear it in a pony tail, or after Jason was through with her last evening, in pig tails. She was so proud, admiring herself in the mirror. She came to the dining room to show me the new look. I took my phone out of my pocket and asked her if I could take her photo. (I always ask, believing that taking someone’s photo without permission, especially close-up, is aggressive and intrusive. When denied permission, I put my camera away.)

Except last night. I asked her again. And again she shook her head, “no.” I tried bargaining with her. “Hazel,” I said, “When you want to play My Little Ponies, I always play with you. I even take “Tempest Shadow,” (even though her unicorn is broken, and Tempest Shadow is, according to Hazel, always mean.) Still no luck. I kept at it for another minute or so before Jason, overhearing this one-sided discussion, admonished me to stop. I did, recognizing too late that permission means just that, and “no” cannot be construed to mean anything but “no.”

Hazel saw a printed piece of paper on the table. She said, “What’s that?” Jadyne replied, “That’s Granddad’s.” Hazel picked it up, crumpled the paper before I could say anything, then threw it in the garbage. The feelings and responses of three year olds are as palpable as those in the rest of us, and Hazel was expressing herself, her disappointment in my behavior in a way that we both understood.

Later in the evening Jason wanted to clarify his response to me. I said, “I get it. I should have respected her feelings the first time she said ‘no.’” He went further. “In a patriarchal society in which we both represent what it means to be a male, men believe that their words, actions, behaviors, can persuade women either to be the person that men want them to be, or to behave as men want them to behave. Even in an interaction as small and apparently insignificant as the one you had with her, she has to know that what she says counts, that her feelings, her responses are valid and not to be discounted or ignored.”

That was unexpected. I took it in a broader context, that we simply need to respect someone else’s feelings and words, no matter how old that someone is. That’s true, but Jason narrowed it down to a man-woman interchange, knowing that he was preparing to arm her with assurance and self-confidence, knowing that the male superior, male-dominated society was something she would be facing, and not just in kindergarten.

The Ides of March. Addendum. Last night Jason was downstairs helping Hawthorn with his math. Hazel had just emerged from the tub and was putting on her pajama bottoms. She ran around the house, laughing, as only she can do. She stood at the top of the stairs leading to Hawthorn’s room, then pulled her pajama bottoms down to her ankles, then began to make her way down the stairs. Her pajama bottoms were like a pair of cloth handcuffs. I saw her just as she was about to make her first step, and realizing that her first step could well be her last, I reached out to her, grabbing her arm. She began screaming, as I was preventing her from doing what she thought she wanted to do. When Jason heard the screams he came out of Hawthorn’s room and reminded Hazel that not only was I not the bogeyman, but I had possibly just saved her life. The image of her standing there has visited me a dozen times today, and as I’m now typing this, it’s still there.

Dynamism of a Dog on a Leash

In 1912 the Italian painter, Giacomo Balla painted his locomotive dachshund in a way that heralded a movement in art that I practice today in photography—dynamism.

Balla’s student, Umberto Boccioni, had written a manifesto on futurist painting, claiming that all things run, all things are rapidly changing. He continued, “On account of the persistency of an image upon the retina, moving objects constantly multiply themselves; their form changes like rapid vibrations.”

In Sebastian Smee’s article in the Washington Post about Balla he concludes, “It reaffirms the one great thing at the heart of Italian futurism; a sense of spiritual urgency, a demand that we free ourselves to see everyday things—including dog walks—not just with a fresh eye, but also a kind of mad euphoria.”

In the following images I tried to do in photography what Balla did with a brush, what Boccioni did in his manifesto, see things. common things, in ways that the eye misses, and when successful, discover and reveal new truths.

Colorado, 2018

A fast shutter speed can freeze the action, but a slower speed captures so much more, the feeling of motion and speed, all under control of the almost frozen image of a man controlling all that appears to be spiraling out of control under him. I love this image.

Kensington, 2006. My dog isn’t as interesting as Balla’s dachshund, but the everyday act of walking a dog is apropos,as is washing the dishes, greeting a neighbor, or putting air in a tire, where the everyday, seen through the eyes of a photographer or artist is translated.

A photographer reduces three dimensions to two, then arrests the motion in one quick click. He can reintroduce dynamism by drawing out that click, and the results convey the motion and commotion of sports in new unseen ways. Nowhere is that more evident in sports like rugby or football.

In those four images the motion is everywhere. Even the ball carrier and the motorcyclist are blurred to the point of abstraction. It isn’t about any one person, but a broader statement about the activity itself.

In contrast, photographers often slow down shutter speeds while the camera is still, such as in the following image of a waterfall, where the falling water, during a shutter speed of several seconds, doesn’t look at all like water. The adjacent rocks and walls provide in their sharpness a contrast to the blur of the water. This is something else entirely different, one that I may explore in a future post.

Iceland

How Will We Know When It's Really Over?

Much water has passed over the proverbial dam since Trump was impeached. More than 300 cases have been filed against participants in the January 6th insurrection, and one against Trump. Trump may be the only one who’s able to escape justice, as the carelessness, indifference, and the self-serving need to promote themselves on social media have taken center stage for many of those who are facing court dates.

Seven GOP senators (out of fifty), voted to convict Donald Trump. The evidence against “the former guy” was overwhelming, and his meager defense was meaningless, except that even if his attorneys had simply recited the lyrics to “Surfin’ Bird” it would have been enough.

But what about those seven? Richard Burr, a senator from North Carolina, was censured immediately by the Republican Party of his state. The chairman called his vote, “shocking and disappointing.” Despite the fact that the constitutionality of the trial was established, the GOP claimed otherwise.

Bill Cassidy of Louisiana added that “it was clear that Trump wished lawmakers to be intimidated” while they counted electoral votes, and that Trump did nothing to dissuade the violent mob. His GOP? “Fortunately, clearer heads prevailed and President Trump has been acquitted of the impeachment charge filed against him.” He, too, was censured.

Susan Collins of Maine and Lisa Murkowski of Alaska bucked their local GOP chapters because, well, they could. Collins just won a six year term, and Murkowski will face an election with rank choice voting, which puts her in a good enough position. Neither was in jeopardy.

Mitt Romney was the only member of the GOP to vote to convict Trump last year. His vote was no surprise, and his constituents won’t bend because he did it again.

Ben Sasse of Nebraska cited Trump’s baseless claims that the election had been rigged against him. Sasse, preempted a potential censure by releasing a video in which he maintained that “politics isn’t about the weird worship of one dude.”

And then Pat Toomey of Pennsylvania. "As a result of President Trump's actions, for the first time in American history, the transfer of presidential power was not peaceful," he said. "A lawless attempt to retain power by a president was one of the founders' greatest fears motivating the inclusion of the impeachment authorities in the U.S. Constitution." And the response? The GOP said that he shared “the disappointment of our grassroots leaders and volunteers” over his vote.

But there’s more. And this is where this is leading. “We did not send him there to vote his conscience,” Ball said on Monday. “We did not send him there to do the right thing or whatever he said he was doing. We sent him there to represent us.”

From the Washington Post, ”The first half of this comment is generating headlines. After all, the unvarnished expression of the idea that Toomey’s proper role was to side with Trump, rather than do what his conscience dictates, is unintentionally revealing

But the second half — the notion that representing Republican voters required this of Toomey — is also telling, and suggests the ongoing GOP war over Trump’s legacy may well lead to a very dark place.

That’s because this sentiment is an increasingly widespread one. We’re hearing again and again that the obligation to represent Republican voters is what requires elected GOP officials to refrain from holding Trump accountable for inciting a violent effort to overthrow U.S. democracy.” Liz Cheney was censured for "voting her conscience.” Josh Hawley claimed that he was “representing his constituents”, even though their constituents were fed and believed a big lie.

So what’s ahead? The extreme right wing of the GOP is too big to fail. Idiots like Lauren Boebert and Marjorie Taylor Greene, believers in QAnon and a host of other stupid conspiracy theories, are enjoying support from so many other know-nothings in the GOP. They’re getting the press, but perhaps those more sane among us will get the votes. Too early to know how full the glass is.

Manzanar

First, the Wikipedia stuff…

Manzanar is the site of one of ten American concentration camps, where more than 120,000 Japanese Americans were incarcerated during World War II from March 1942 to November 1945. It is located at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains in California's Owens Valley, between the towns of Lone Pine to the south and Independence to the north, approximately 230 miles (370 km) north of Los Angeles. Manzanar means "apple orchard" in Spanish. The Manzanar National Historic Site, which preserves and interprets the legacy of Japanese American incarceration in the United States, was identified by the United States National Park Service as the best-preserved of the ten former camp sites.

Since the last of those incarcerated left in 1945, former detainees and others have worked to protect Manzanar and to establish it as a National Historic Site to ensure that the history of the site, along with the stories of those who were incarcerated there, is recorded for current and future generations. The primary focus is the Japanese American incarceration era, as specified in the legislation that created the Manzanar National Historic Site. The site also interprets the former town of Manzanar, the ranch days, the settlement by the Owens Valley Paiute, and the role that water played in shaping the history of the Owens Valley.

My turn. At the beginning of a circuitous road trip that Jadyne and I took to Colorado, we dipped down #395 on the eastern side of the Sierrra Nevada mountains, stopping at Manzanar. Although the barracks are gone, foundations remain. It is easy to imagine what it must have looked like seventy-eight years ago. The views looking west are spectacular.

Inside one of the remaining buildings mementos, maps, and photos give testimony to the thousands who were imprisoned there, victims of American racism. A locked glass cabinet holds letters, teddy bears, and jewelry from the residents. Jadyne walked over to look.

The cabinet.

OMG! She exclaimed. There’s one of your photos! In the second shelf to the far right, a boy had addressed a letter to one of the former residents, his grandfather, a man he’d never met.

Evan’s letter and a wallet photograph from Montgomery High School’s Prom.

Although the text was difficult to read from my photo, I have been able to transcribe it. It is as follows,

“Although we never met, never talked, never saw each other, it is you that I have to thank for all I have now.  My happiness through life I hold dear would not have happened had it not been for you.  It is here in Manzanar that I realize how different your life is from mine and how truly blessed I am.  Thank you for your sacrifices and for giving me the life I now appreciate so much more.  May heaven hold as much good for you as it has already given me.” Evan

A Day of Infamy (Part II)

I sent an email to my cousin Donald (no relation to the POS in the White House), congratulating him on his 75th birthday, adding it to the other auspicious events of the day—the feast of Epiphany, Warnock’s win in Georgia and the expected official announcement of Biden’s election. Little did I (or anyone) know that at a rally organized by disgruntled Trump supporters in DC, that Trump would encourage them to march to the Capitol and “stay strong,” and that after claiming that he would lead them, slip unnoticed back to the White House and gleefully watch as…

The Disgruntled

Disgruntles must know that it would have been easier to go up the stairs.

A Disgruntle carts away his estate sale purchase.

Capitol police try to dissuade a Disgruntle from entering the senate chambers.

Nancy Pelosi relinquishes her office to a Disgruntle who sends her a personal message, “We will not back down”, then is seen and photographed later carrying a letter addressed to her.

Lawmakers take naps in the midst of lengthy negotiations.

A Disgruntle proudly displays what the election of 2016 had already revealed—that Trump is his president. Thanks for the reminder.

The Flag Store ran out of American flags, so this Disgruntle carried this one instead.

Fortunately, enough of the lawmakers were gruntled, but not this one. He is Senator Josh Hawley, whose hometown paper reported, “Sen. Josh Hawley has blood on his hands in a Capitol coup attempt” I guess he’s one of the Disgruntled, too. He wrote a book that Simon & Schuster were planning to publish. Note the word “were.”

Not all the Disgruntlers were there to party. This lovely shirt is emblazoned with “6MWE”, referring to the six million Jews killed in WW II, and the letters mean, “Weren’t Enough.”

Christians and Evangelicals sympathize with a praying Disgruntle, recognizing how oppressed she is because of her love for Trump, her whiteness, and her fear of democracy,

Later, Princess Handbag, she of the unfairly maligned and oppressed Family Trump, referred to the disgruntled as “patriots”. The POS in the White House tweeted, "These are the things and events that happen when a sacred landslide election victory is so unceremoniously & viciously stripped away from great patriots who have been badly & unfairly treated for so long. Go home with love & in peace. Remember this day forever!" He added, “We love you. You’re very special.”

Meanwhile…Jon Ossoff defeated crooked David Perdue, joining Raphael Warnock, as the second of Georgia’s senators, effectively giving the senate back to the Democrats. And the rats in the administration have begun to leave the sinking USS Trump. The role of the failed capitol police has been questioned, as they did nothing to prevent the rioters, even taking selfies with some of them. Oh yes, one shot and killed a woman in the neck. (Three other Disgruntles succumbed in medical emergencies.). Two days later. An officer has died.

And as a parting P.S. to yesterday’s Washington rave-a-thon…

The armed forces at the Capitol during BLM protests. They were on sabbatical yesterday.

And a very late P.S.S. Of the five who died on Wednesday our attention and sympathies turn towards one of those deceased, Kevin Greeson, who I’d like to honor in my blog.

R.I.P. dear Kevin

2020 The Year That Wasn't

Five hours and forty minutes. Could any year be worse than this one? Historians rate it down to about eighth in US history, giving 1862 with the thousands that died in the Civil War a reason to lay claim, bringing the USA close to an end, 1968 with the political upheaval, the Vietnam war, and the assassinations, 2001, and the fall of the twin towers, and who could forget 1929 with the stock market crash, bread lines and the depression?

But 2020 is a worthy competitor. The pandemic, social unrest, election chaos, the rise of right-wing militant groups, and the mere presence of Donald J Trump alive and in office, gives reason to consider it. In fact, the four years that Trump has been president, if taken together, represent a sad time in American history, coalescing in one horrendous four-year year.

2020 began with very little fanfare, a year like any other year, that is, unless you consider that Trump was apprised of the danger of Covid-19 in that first month. Even though he knew how deadly it was, he said, “We have it totally under control. It’s one person coming in from China. It’s going to be just fine.” Instead of acting on the knowledge that he had been given, he called it a hoax perpetuated by Democrats who want to bring him down. That “one person” has metastasized into twenty million cases and three hundred and forty-four thousand unnecessary deaths. Not a year later, but in only ten months. One of a huge number of failures for the sociopath, the moron who for the next nineteen days, calls 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue “home.”

In February Trump was impeached by the house, but acquitted by the Senate. The Republican party, once a collection of conservative voices who loved America, became cultists, pledging allegiance and fealty to an autocratic man-child, the wannabe dictator who ruled them with criticism and threats.

By March stay-at-home orders were in place. The country shut down. In June Trump staged his infamous plea to evangelicals, clearing peaceful protestors from a church in Washington DC, then holding a Bible upside-down to show his religious convictions. It became a meme to hold a book that you’ve never read in front of a place you’ve never been.

In the summer twelve named storms hit the southern US. Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the “notorious RBG” passed away, leaving Trump and the Republicans an opportunity to select a conservative inexperienced justice to take the place of the liberal icon, that sadly, stayed too long.

In October Trump got Covid. We prayed that he would find himself on a ventilator, but a zillion doctors, the best medical care in America, experimental drugs conspired to save the tyrant, who upon his release, returned to the White House, and in a theatrical display, threw off his mask, encouraging seventy million sheep (what a lot of cotton!) to do the same. They did, then they died.

The vaccine arrived in December, but the country, so ill-prepared for testing, for caring for the afflicted, for knowing what to do next, is now ill-prepared to administer the vaccine. It sits in warehouses, and nmore people die.

Christmas 2020

The lights didn’’t make Christmas “Christmas.” What’s behind them did. I applaud those who put up such luminous masterpieces, like this:

Or this:

But lights don’t make Christmas “Christmas.” And presents don’t, either. And big trees aren’t any better than small trees. We had a friend who befriended outcasts. She went to a Christmas tree lot and asked for the smallest, most pathetic tree on the lot. Amazed, the man who sold her the tree said, “I’ve never had anyone ever ask for that before.” So of course, we questioned her about where she bought it, and we asked him the same thing. Made his Christmas.

People used to wait until after Thanksgiving to put up lights, but someone we know put them up after Halloween. Same with Christmas trees. Many were up the day after Thanksgiving. Tree farms were low on inventory. Lines were long. We don’t always send out Christmas cards, but this year we knew we should.

Our three kids live nearby. We always have one day, not on Christmas itself, when we celebrate together. We did it this year, too. On Zoom.

Facing Christmas head-on this year brought out pluck, determination, and ingenuity. At the end of one of the most troubling years in our lives, we were determined to bring joy back into our lives first by ignoring the caterwauling from the White House. Then, by sending and sharing love and sympathy to all those who are affected by Covid-19. knowing that the empty chairs at Christmas dinner symbolize the unspeakable pain and sorrow that so many suffer. And third, we recognize the injustices that blacks and Latinos face in both the political arena and in the courts. And now we see these injustices mirrored in the pandemic, recognizing that people of color are not only more likely to become infected but to die from it at younger ages. We commit ourselves to doing more than just acknowledging the pain and suffering by providing support as we can.

This is where the lights come in. This is where the poinsettias, the fruitcakes, the amaryllis, the wreaths, the gifts from neighbor to neighbor, the tiny trees in apartment windows, the caroling at six foot intervals, the Zoom family gatherings, Jadyne’s armband lights for running in the dark, my PurpleAir sensor and Magic hoses, and last the resolutions, even before the New Year, that there is work we can do to supplant despair and depression.

It’s now been four days since the winter solstice. The days are getting longer. The new year is upon us. The vaccine has arrived. Hope, love, kindness, friendship, empathy, defiance, resistance, are an unquenchable part of the human spirit. At the end of 2020, after so many losses from Trump, to Covid, to smoky skies, we look forward to the challenges that face us this new year with conviction, love, and optimism.

Kensington Cotillion

Kensington...

Is a small unincorporated village in the East Bay hills with streets so narrow that two-way traffic is impossible. This is our street, Rugby Avenue, which is wider than many of the streets in our neighborhood. Although California law dictates that the car going downhill has to yield to the car going uphill there is an unwritten law in these hills that supersedes that. Regardless of the incline, the car traveling on the side of the street that permits parking always yields to the cars on the no-parking side. It is also an unwritten law that the driver on the side of the street with free travel waves to the driver who pulled into a space on the other side. He, in turn, waves back. Same is true for pedestrians. While crossing a street yesterday I waved to a woman who waited while I crossed. She smiled and waved back. And that folks, is the extent of outside human contact in the Bay Area in December in the year of our Lord 2020.

Election P.S.

Two hundred and twenty-four years ago George Washington retired with these words, “The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge … is itself a frightful despotism,” Washington warned. And, “sooner or later the chief of some prevailing faction, more able or more fortunate than his competitors, turns this disposition to the purposes of his own elevation, on the ruins of public liberty.” He warned against political parties becoming “potent engines, by which cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people.”

That was then,.

This is now, words taken straight from the current president:

“This election was a fraud. A total fraud. It was a fraudulent election. This was a massive fraud. This fraud has taken place. You have a fraudulent system. Fraudulent voting and fraudulent votes. There’s tremendous fraud here. There’s fraud all over the place. Massive fraud has been found.

We’re like a Third World country. We will find tens of thousands of fraudulent and illegal votes. You’re gonna find fraud of hundreds of thousands of votes per state. They used covid in order to defraud the people of this country. Biden can only enter the White House as president if he can prove that his ridiculous “80,000,000 votes” were not fraudulently or illegally obtained. I just don’t see Americans rolling over for this election fraud. Our big lawsuit, which spells out in great detail all of the ballot fraud and more, will soon be filled (sic).

RIGGED ELECTION! This Election was RIGGED. This, it was a rigged election. Very sad to say it, this election was rigged. This was a 100% RIGGED ELECTION They know it was a rigged election. At the highest level it was a rigged election. This election was a rigged election.

This was an election that we won easily. We won it by a lot. I won Pennsylvania by a lot. In Georgia, I won by a lot. I won that by hundreds of thousands of votes. There’s no way Trump didn’t win Pennsylvania because the energy industry was all for him. No, we won by a lot. We were robbed. We got many votes more than Ronald Reagan.

This election was lost by the Democrats. They cheated. They flooded everybody with ballots. They’re horrible people, and they’re people that don’t love our country.

Horrible things went on. Many other things were happening that were horrible. Just horrible. This is horrible what’s taking place. All of the horrible things that happened to poll watchers. If you were a Republican poll watcher you were treated like a dog.

Dead people were requesting ballots. Not only were they coming in and putting in a ballot, but dead people were requesting ballots, and they were dead for years. Dead people voting all over the place.”

There is no justice if this man isn’t charged, convicted, and sentenced.

Aquatic Park

It really doesn’t look like much. From Wikipedia: “Aquatic Park is a public park in Berkeley, located just east of the Eastshore Freeway (Interstate 80) between Ashby and University Avenues. The Works Progress Administration created the park in the 1930s simultaneously with the nearby Berkeley Yacht Harbor.[1] Its centerpiece is an artificial mile-long lagoon that was cut off from San Francisco Bay by the creation of a causeway for the Eastshore Highway, during the construction of the approaches to the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge, also in the 1930s. The east shoreline of the lagoon used to be the original shoreline of San Francisco Bay.”

Aquatic Park. Looking north

I’ve spent many hours there, walking from the Animal Shelter at the north end, then continuing counter-clockwise to the south, then east, then north again along a paved bike and pedestrian trail, through a frisbee golf course, a number of cyclists, and people out enjoying a modest walk around the lagoon.

I spent a little more than an hour there today, meeting friends, some familiar, some new. I never know what to expect. The following ten images were taken in about an hour in a smaller unnamed lagoon, adjacent to Aquatic Park, no more than fifty feet away. And yesterday, that was where the action was.

The whole family came out to watch Junior’s first flight:

His landing, safe, but a bit awkward.

More friends.

Cormorants are the Ferraris of Aquatic Park.

The drama queens like to show off, wings raised and spread, heading into the shadows.

I have enough trouble understanding people who speak English as a second language, but listening to herons is a real challenge. I just usually nod and smile. And after a while they just fly away.

Cormorants are faster, but a low altitude pelican is a sight, too. Their wingtips never touch the water.

Four in the air, six taxiing.

This is a friend. She came by just to see what I was doing.

They’re used to me…

Other images from other days…

The road between the lagoon and I-80.

I watched the heron wandering around the weeds. Until he made a quick dive into the grasses did I realize that he was looking for lunch.

A tern for the better.

The end.

Two Ships

Longfellow’s quote encapsulates so much in my life right now. Yesterday thousands of Trump supporters gathered in Washington DC to express their contempt for the election results, which, from the words of their lord and god, were “rigged”, a word he’s come to use now, having replaced “fraud.”

From the Washington Post, “President Trump’s supporters had celebrated for hours on Saturday, waving their MAGA flags and blaring “God Bless the U.S.A.” as they gathered in Washington to falsely claim that the election had been stolen from the man they adore. The crowd had even reveled in a personal visit from Trump, who passed by in his motorcade, smiling and waving. ‘He drove right past me. I saw him. He waved right past me,’ one man said as he tried to collect himself.” On stark display in the nation’s capital were two irreconcilable versions of America, each refusing to accept what the other considered to be undeniable fact.

Two very large ships. One, 73,107,108, the largest vote for a President in history, was swamped by more than five million more passengers on the challenger, 78,662,259. And it’s not over yet. The ships pass, and “then darkness again and silence.” That’s where we take leave of the quote, for as long as Trump continues his tweets, claiming that the election was either rigged, rife with fraud, or stolen, the remaining “silence” will be both destructive and deafening. ************************************************************************************************************************** Last week I tried to have a conversation with Hawthorn. Knowing that he’s dealing with difficult issues—a breakup of his family, a forced transition between his home on Elm Court and ours, a stream of complaints shared to him by his mother about his father, he is confused, distraught, unhappy and vulnerable. One ship (me) tried to pass on advice that I had received years ago in a Mindfulness class, that “although we can’t control what happens to us, we can control how we respond.” Unfortunately this first ship added that Jadyne and I hadn’t signed up for this, we hadn’t chosen to share our retirement years this way, that this was something we couldn’t control, but how we responded was something we could control. Ship #2 ran downstairs, called his mother, and told her he wanted to go back to Elm Court. He interpreted what I said to mean that we didn’t want him and Hazel to come up, that we didn’t care about them, and in a text passed to Jason by his mother, “we didn’t care if he died.” Unwilling to come up for his three days this weekend, we thought we wouldn’t see him at all. Then, knowing that his friend Jake would be here, he came up Saturday night, and the two played in the open garage (because of Covid-19), a heater, lamp and muslin spread on the floor to give them some comfort, and then went to bed. He’s downstairs now, asleep, and we’ll find out later whether the rest is silence. Once the ships have passed, they’re still sailing, and course corrections are still possible. **************************************************************************************************************************Sometimes the ships don’t pass. Titanic, meet Iceberg. For the last several weeks I was the captain of a ship with a very long name—”I can’t talk to anyone about anything else but the election and how much I hate Donald Trump.” I recognize that there are a lot of people on this ship, but I was clearly the captain. And as blind as the captain was on the real Titanic, this captain failed to recognize the named Iceberg ahead, “Jadyne.” Jadyne was actually piloting the iceberg, which had a name, too. “I’m sick and tired of all the complaining that you do…you can’t talk about anything else…you aren’t any fun to be around, and if you’re angry because I’m criticizing you so much, it’s because I can’t take it anymore.” Wow! The whole iceberg was covered in paint. Fortunately, Jadyne climbed off the iceberg, brought along some Gorilla Glue, and patched up the ol’ Titanic clone, climbed on board and took control. The “ICTTAAAAEBTEAHMIHDT” (for short), has steamed on. The waters have calmed. The iceberg has melted.. **************************************************************************************************************************I have a friend named Anne Renfree. Her husband, a Santa Rosa obstetrician, would have delivered Jennifer had he been available when she made her appearance. He waived all his fees, as I taught his kids at Cardinal Newman HS, and he knew how poorly compensated we were. When Anne and John’s son Kevin was married in New Orleans John not only paid me to photograph the wedding, but he paid for Jadyne and me to fly to New Orleans, stay for a week, and join him and his friends for social events and dinners. Thirty-two years later, when Anne commented favorably on Sarah Huckabee Sanders, I knew I was in unfamiliar territory. Later I posted on FB a faux photo of a Trump tower in a prison, and she replied,

Concerned that I was losing a valuable friendship because of politics I wrote to one of her daughters who replied,

“David - Thank you for reaching out. First and foremost, I know that I speak for the entire Renfree family when I say that we hold you and Jadyne in the highest regard. Unfortunately, the political environment has become very polarized and there is no escape. You cannot turn on the tv, open a newspaper or participate in social media without being bombarded by strong, and often nasty, political attacks. We had two dogs in this race and had to hold our noses to vote for one of them. As for my mom, it did not turn out the way she had hoped. All I can ask is that you not take it personally and understand where the negativity comes from. I continue to wish you and your family peace and good health.”

There is a harbor to be reached.

Election Day...and then some

9:07 P.S.T. Polls in the East close in less than seven hours. We dropped our ballot off a couple of weeks ago at the Kensington Library. Close to a hundred million other people either mailed, dropped their ballots off, or stood in lines that stretched several city blocks long, and waited as long as eleven hours to vote in person. For once there is no hyperbole in saying that this “is the most important election of our lifetimes.” It is. It’s not the difference between different thoughts and methods, differing ways and means of engaging in a democracy, but more accurately, an election between someone who believes in America and a man who, along with his cult followers, wants to destroy it. Oh, perhaps “wants to destroy it” is hyperbole, but a narcissist who is indifferent to the deaths of a quarter of a million countrymen, a man whose policies have brought about many of those deaths, a reality TV host who had never governed, who had sex with a porn star while his wife was giving birth to his baby, who has declared bankruptcy six times and owes hundreds of millions of dollars to unknown people in unknown countries, is, because he’s a con artist, a billionaire who paid $750 in federal income tax, a man ignorant of the subtleties of virtually everything, bent on plundering a country that has given him so much, a country that had asked him so little in return. And people love him. Lemmings will never become extinct. Stupidity and Ignorance are in vogue in many parts of America. I appropriated one of the con man’s favorite tweets, “Sad.”

And in the days and weeks before Election Day…

He won’t go down without a fight. Despite the fact that his recent “rallies” have brought about an estimated 30,000 cases of Covid-19 and 700 deaths, this “law and order” President continued to bask in the limelight of his adoring followers. Many of them, ignoring the “law and order” part, engaged in driving “parades”, shutting down freeways and bridges, and in one case, driving into Marin City, a largely black community in Marin County, shouting epithets at the black residents. Here they are, spreading “love” and “law and order” while creating chaos.

A pickup truck heading into Marin City. The flag reads “No More Bullshit”, ironically in support of a man who has spoon fed his followers four years of bullshit, lying over 20,000 times during his “presidency,”

Pretending to be Americans

Not content with cars, Trump followers in coastal communities engaged in Trump boat parades. In this one, the wakes of several boats created waves that sunk seven boats. I love irony, especially when it’s combined with karma.

Three years ago, when Trump was the president-elect and had yet to take the oath of office, someone wrote to a Buddhist spiritual adviser, asking for clarity. The response:

“Trump is not an alien who came from another planet. We produced Trump, so we are co-responsible. Our culture, our society, made him. We love to pick somebody and make him the object. But it’s deeper than that. We have to see him inside of us. We are afraid to engage, but you can dialogue and debate. It requires a lot of practice to sit there and listen, and not judge so you can understand. You cannot end discrimination by calling the other names. All the people who voted for him are not bigots and racists and women haters. We are all judgmental, sometimes even a bit racist. What’s in my heart is that people find the patience and clarity to listen before they start to blame and criticize.”

Not me. If you haven’t figured out yet that Trump is an alien presence, that his psychological profile is that of a sociopath, then you’re a fucking moron, and not a passive fucking moron, but one whose active allegiance to a cult leader will spread, like Covid-19, into the minds of the weak, vulnerable, unsuspecting, evil, and terminally and hopelessly stupid. Wanna have a party with more friends like you? Mind you, not all Trump supporters look like these good folks; some are actually even more disreputable.

Twenty-four hours later…

The blue wave didn’t get anyone wet. The presidential election is too close to call, Republicans held the Senate, and the Democrats didn’t make headway in the House. Why? Polling is an inexact science. Although mail-in ballots favored the Democrats, in-person voting yesterday was decidedly red. Still, but why? White people are scared to death, and Trump is the last great white hope. Even discounting his lies. his ignorance, and his mismanagement of the Covid virus, one writer marveled, “More than 230,000 Americans died of coronavirus under the president's watch. Americans in hard-hit counties voted for him anyway.” Why? Why, indeed. Another writer had this to say, “Trump makes an explicit and consistent appeal to white supremacy & its cousins patriarchy and xenophobia. White supremacy is a serious drug & Trump is the first president since Reagan to offer it clean, uncut and non-diluted. White America is not about to kick that narcotic”

Charles Blow, a writer for the NY Times, said in an OpEd, that even though Trump is the most-anti-gay president ever, that ten percent of American gay men "do not support Trump at all, but will vote for him nonetheless,” that blacks voted for him in increasing numbers despite his blatant racism, and that a plurality of white women voted for him, too, despite that he denigrates women. He concludes, “All of this to me points to the power of the white patriarchy and the coattail it has of those who depend on it or aspire to it. It reaches across gender and sexual orientation and even race, Trump’s brash, privileged chest thumping and alpha-male dismissiveness and in-your-face rudeness are aspirational to some men and appealing to some women, Some people who have historically been oppressed will stand with the oppressors, and will aspire to power by proximity.”

It’s a return to the caves. Trump holds the biggest club. People love that shit. Forget policies, character, honesty, he can swing his club on the noggins of the unsuspecting.

It’s Over.

Sometime this morning Pennsylvania catapulted Biden from 253 to 273, and the long national nightmare ended.

In the New York Times writer Roxane Gay wrote,

“The United States is not at all united. We live in two countries. In one, people are willing to grapple with racism and bigotry. We acknowledge that women have a right to bodily autonomy, that every American has a right to vote and the right to health care and the right to a fair living wage. We understand that this is a country of abundance and that the only reason economic disparity exists is because of a continued government refusal to tax the wealthy proportionally.

The other United States is committed to defending white supremacy and patriarchy at all costs. Its citizens are the people who believe in QAnon conspiracy theories and take Mr. Trump’s misinformation as gospel. They see America as a country of scarcity, where there will never be enough of anything to go around, so it is every man and woman for themselves.

They are not concerned with the collective, because they believe any success they achieve by virtue of their white privilege is achieved by virtue of merit. They see equity as oppression. They are so terrified, in fact, that as the final votes were counted in Detroit, a group of them swarmed the venue shouting, “Stop the count.” In Arizona, others swarmed a venue shouting, “Count the votes.” The citizens of this version of America only believe in democracy that serves their interests.”

Trump’s first tweet after the election was called for Biden:

“I WON THE ELECTION, BY A LOT!”

Election Day +19

In the last sixteen days the Narcissist-in-Chief has filed over thirty lawsuits, claiming among other things, massive fraud, a stolen election, and the questionable belief that he has actually won the election. His record so far 1-29.

Today he posted these tweets:

He’s right. Indeed, the world is watching…and laughing…and sending condolences to Americans who are both humiliated and embarrassed by the antics of the insane resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. He won’t concede, nor will he ever believe that he lost. In this layperson’s opinion, he is insane. Insanity, meet reality. The former will have a breakdown. Asylum, meet your new friend.

November 24, 2020

After Attorney Sydney Powell and Rudolph Guliani (he with the hair dye running down both cheeks) embarrassed themselves and Trump at separate press conferences (something that Chris Christie called a “national embarrassment.”} and Powell was dismissed, Trump dismissed the whole team. Emily Murphy, the administrator who is in charge of the funds and services provided to the President-Elect, sat on the money, the briefings, and the services for sixteen days, cowed by Trump and the Republican cowards.

But that’s all over now. She authorized the transition. Biden will receive briefings, funds, and he and Kamala are hitting the ground running, despite Republican efforts to trip them up. This whole sorry tale, this sad chapter of American history, this pathetic president who lost the popular vote twice and was impeached, will come to its inglorious end.

Thanksgiving

Yesterday, in their respective Thanksgiving messages, President Trump and President-Elect Biden spoke. Biden expressed gratitude, compassion, the need for unity, and an optimistic look to the future. Trump, well, Trump said this:

“This is an election that we won easily. We won it by a lot — big energy,” Trump said via the phone’s scratchy speaker. “This election was rigged, and we can’t let that happen. We can’t let it happen for our country. This election has to be turned around.”

And so it went. And so it goes.

"Old Friends...

…sat on the park bench like bookends”, sang Paul Simons. Bookends, my ass. Many of us are Type A, and we don’t sit. We're out jogging, taking care of our grandchildren, cutting the lawn, going to book clubs, writing letters to encourage people to vote, driving for Meals on Wheels, or making the perfect frozen Margaritas. And we “old folks” have friends who are “old folks”, too, and until this damned pandemic struck you would as likely find all of us in Italy, Russia, China, or the Galapagos, snorkeling with dolphins. Here are six old folks who would be in some other country right now if they thought that traveling wouldn’t make us all candidates for ventilators.

Two of Jadyne’s college friends married before we did. We’ve all become good friends, both husbands and wives. The six of us have known each other for four or five decades. We have dinner together at least three times a year, going between Oakland, San Francisco, and Kensington.

Last night Mary and John hosted us at their home in Oakland. It looks “lived in”, but not the way that most houses look “lived in,” as twenty-nine years ago they told their kids, “There’s threat of fire. We need to evacuate. Take your homework.” And their house was one of 2,843 that was burned to the ground. They lost everything. Everything,

Mary Brutacao-Kemp and John Kemp

Both Kemps are retired attorneys. Mary’s practice was family law; John’s was taxes. They have two daughters and a son. Once upon a time they looked like this:

From an undated color slide. Our youngest is forty-two, so Jadyne’s pregnancy dates this closer to five decades ago.

John and Mary’s oldest, Jessica, is close in age to Jennifer. Here’s a photograph of Jessica and Jennifer, one of my favorites.

Jennifer is on the left, Jessica on the right. Rawlins, Wyoming and Dillon, Montana look on, wishing to be part of the hijinks.

As far as we know money has never been an issue with the Kemps. In 1984 we came to visit them for a weekend, and I suggested that we go to a Toyota dealer to look at the new Toyota van, which had just been introduced. The dealer had one in stock. John asked me, “Are you going to buy this?” I said, “Not this one. I like the silver better.” John said, “Good, because I am.” When the salesman asked John to fill out his salary figures John returned the document to the salesman who replied, “Not your yearly salary, but your monthly one.” John smiled, “I know,” he replied. We’ve traveled together, shared much, drunk as much as we’ve shared, and consider each other lifetime friends.

When Teeny was killed in an avalanche in 1988 John and Mary drove to Santa Rosa that night.

And so it is with Tracy and Al.

Al and Tracy

Al was an Alameda Public Defender, and Tracy taught school. Al’s Italian ancestors lived in San Francicso, and so do Tracy and Al. Their home in the Marina District of San Francisco, a couple of blocks from the bay, is built on fill. During the Loma Prieta in 1989 it sustained, as I remember, damage in the neighborhood of $40,000. Al took off work and did the work himself. Al is good at stuff like that. I’m not. But then again, I think that Al remodeled a bedroom and bathrroom at their house for Becky, finishing it just as she was leaving for college. They still have a VW that, because it’s about two hundred years old, is worth five or six times more than what they paid for it.

Tracy and Al are sharing an experience with us that none of us signed up for—contentious divorce in the marriage of our first born children. Not going there. In this photograph Al is holding their second child, Mark.

Mark and Al. Mark is the one without the beard.

Jadyne

There are countless anecdotes from our time together, most of which we can look back on with amusement, anecdotes that we remember, experiences that we share. Marlene Dietrich once said, “It’s the friends you can call at 4 am that matter.” It’s a lovely sentiment, but after last night’s six or seven bottles of wine I don’t think that John would have answered.

Tahoe 2020

Our three day weekend at Tahoe with John, Kim, and family didn’t start out as we had hoped. We spent Friday morning pacing, anxiously waiting almost four hours while Jason and Rachel’s custody hearing went before a judge. We didn’t know that the judge had four other cases to decide, and Jason’s and Rachel’s was last.

By noon it was over. But this isn’t about that. It’s about arriving at Tahoe three hours later at which time I realized that the sandals, shorts, and t-shirt that I was wearing were all that I had brought to Tahoe. Oh yes, I had two cameras, four lenses and my guitar, just no clothes or toiletries, no meds, no nothing.

I called Jennifer. “Jennifer,” I asked in a plaintive voice, “How much do you love me?” Enough, as it turned out, that she would drive to Rugby, pick up my suitcase, then leave the next morning in time to meet me in Rocklin at 6;45 am, a hundred miles away for each of us and make the exchange. I returned with suitcase in hand by 9:00, enough time to charge the car, then meet everyone at Granlibakken Treetop Adventure Park

We had no idea what to expect. A half hour orientation with masks, harnesses, and we were off. Taking cues from ski slope designations, we found ourselves facing three different levels, green, blue, and black diamond. We began with green, then to blue. The Weller Way family loved the black diamonds.

John, Kim, Kennedy, and Lilly

Kennedy

Lilly

Kim on a zip line

Anyone who knows about Jadyne’s adventure on the Shooting Star in 1970 would be impressed with her fearless performance at Granlibakken.

An overview of one of the 12 courses. Noting my own age I asked one of the “counselors” about the oldest adventurer. “One man celebrated his eightieth birthday here,” they said. Five and a half years from now for me. Get your harnesses ready, folks.

Making friends along a trail at Tahoe City.

I didn’t wait to see the look on the tourists’ faces below.

October at Tahoe reminds me of Autumn in Ohio.

Because six grandchildren weren’t running around playing I had some alone time with two I don’t see very often—Lilly and Kennedy. In my favorite images of people their faces are “in repose”. The whole of who they are is revealed through their eyes and their expressions. I couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity.

Lillian

Kennedy

Oh yes. Tahoe. Something about a lake.

"I'm a Travelin' Man...Made a lot of Stops"

Not only has my life been enriched by the many places that Jadyne and I have been able to visit, but we’ve met some wonderful people in those places. They are friends of friends, students we’d befriended who were studying at UCB who’ve returned home, business associates related to Dozens of Muslins, and families of former romantic partners of our offspring. We’ve been sheltered at their homes, protected*, (I’ll get to that), shown beautiful national parks, gifted with meals and hotel expenses, by people who have shown us kindness that we could never repay.

When John was nineteen he played rugby for an American team that traveled to New Zealand, He stayed with Ellen and Paul Gavin, whose daughter Michelle fell in love with John, (even moving in with him while he was in law school). Even though that affair ended we fell in love with Michelle, too, often hosting her and later, her sister. When we traveled to New Zealand we stayed with the Gavins in tiny Whakatane on the North Island.

Ellen and Paul Gavin

Downtown Whakatane. In the distance is White Island, a favorite tourist spot, that is, until December, 2019, when the volcano, driven by steam, erupted, killing sixteen tourists.

Our neighbors in Kensington at the time, Glenn and Sally Flinchbaugh, knew Denis and Anne McLean, who lived in Wellington. Denis was the ambassador to the United States for New Zealand when Kennedy and George Bush were President. They welcomed us in Wellington, which is located on the southern side of the North Island. Denis was still active in politics, finishing a book as we visited. Anne took us all over Wellington, first to visit her gallery-owning friend (with the sculpture of toast on the wall behind their heads)…

Denis McClean in his house filled with wonderful art.

Anne McClean and her gallery-owning friend

…and then to the National Tattoo Museum…

At the time we were still renting backgrounds. Film was still king, and digital was the new kid on the block. Our website, dozensofmuslins.com, was the go-to site for photographers whose work centered around high schools.

Uttiya Misra was the owner of AAvant backgrounds, in Delhi, India. His team of artists painted small backgrounds, such as those that we rented, and large theater muslins and canvasses, filling whole ballrooms and stages with hand-painted pieces. He knew of us through the internet, and he saw an opening. We began to contract for his services, were pleased with the quality of the work that Aavant produced, and twelve years ago when we visited Jennifer and Andrew in Kathmandu, we took a side trip to India, to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, to Varanasi for the Ganges, and of course to Delhi to see Uttiya and Aavant.

Aavant artists and our New Orleans background. I took this particular image to show Jennifer, as she has been so involved with human rights, especially those of children, that she thought that I would find children among the artists. I did not.

Another from Aavant. Three stories high, perhaps fifty feet long.

Now the part about being “protected.”*

Jadyne and I stopped into a nearby coffee shop in Delhi. Before we left I went online and looked at the New York Times, only to discover that in Mumbai over 100 people had been slaughtered by a terrorist group. Americans were targeted. No one knew at the time who was behind the attacks or whether other cities would experience a similar horror. We returned to our hotel quickly. Uttiya advised us to stay put until he could pick us up. And so, yes, he protected us.

Loving India as much as we did, we were able to return for a longer visit in 2016. One of our first stops was Neemrana where we met volunteer tour guide Balwant Soni who led us through the streets of Neemrana. Educated in England, Balwani spoke fluent English. His family are all craftsmen, and they sell beautiful silver jewelry. We became fast friends, both during our time in Neemrana, and later, through Facebook. I was moved by his post a week or so ago pictured below: “The most beautiful moments in life are moments when you are expressing your joy, not when you are seeking it.” I began to think of all the people I’ve met in our travels whose kindness and love have resonated with me. And so I began this blog entry.

Balwant Soni

Balwant took us to the elementary school in Neemrana…

…and to meet his guru (center), and other locals in and around Neemrana, (below)

In October, 2019 we visited China for the second time. Jadyne and I had made friends with two visiting scholars, Celia and Zhongbing, both of whom had returned to China. Celia paid our hotel bill before we even arrived, and Zhong invited us to travel to a distant park, showing us places we otherwise would have never seen. First the terracotta warriors, then Celia’s husband Danesh drove us through Xi’an at night. This is the bell tower in Xi’an.

Celia gave birth while she was visiting Berkeley. This is her second daughter, Ashley, an American citizen.

Zhongbing, his wife, and their twins. Zhong is a member of the Chinese Communist party. He pays $2.50 a month for dues. Years ago when he joined he thought that it would be a good idea. He doesn’t think that anymore, but it’s not easy to leave. Dining in their tiny apartment with Zhong’s family, his mother and father, made me realize how challenging it was when Covid-19 struck China, Zhong’s university closed, and leaving the apartment was perilous. We were there months before the virus struck, and Zhong took us to, well, look at the photo below.

Zhangjiiajie National Forest Park, a twelve thousand acre park, a four hour drive from Zhong’s home in Changsha, a small town of four and a half million people in the south of China.

We spent two days in and around what is often referred to as “the most beautiful place in China”, known now as the “Avatar Mountains” for the movie that was filmed here. Besides it’s much easier to pronounce than “Zhangjiajie.”

When I mentioned that I was writing this in my blog Jadyne reminded me that “what goes ‘round comes ‘round, ” that, especially with the New Zealand Gavins, the Chinese scholars, and Uttiya in Delhi, we extended ourselves to them first, that we opened a welcome mat, showing them hospitality and the other side of the “ugly American.” For Uttiya, our relationship began with business, and though we no longer have new backgrounds made by Aavant, we’re on Facebook together, learning about each other and each other’s culture, too. And yes, every Christmas Uttiya sends us an edible gift pack of nuts, cookies, and other goodies. Still.

Oxymoron

I don’t remember the first time I came across the name “Donald Trump.” From the get-go, though, what I learned offended me. From Annie Leibovitz’s iconic image of him and Melania,..

…to his Mussolini pose on the Truman balcony two nights ago…

the insanity, the insecurity, the weakness, the narcissism, the petulance, the childishness, the corruption, the criminality, absence of empathy and sensitivity, and the overwhelming stupidity has brought the United States of America to a low unimaginable four years ago.

The list of sins is endless. So is the list of superlatives describing those sins. Moments before the photo above was taken, Trump, in a very theatrical display, removed his mask, causing MSNBC anchor Joy Reid to say, “I am speechless. I am stunned. I have to be honest with you, I’m disgusted by what I just saw. This man is contagious,” she added. Trump, Reid pointed out, “just exposed his Secret Service agents,” who she described as “true professionals” who would “in every moment of their job would take a bullet for the president, not take one from the president. There are moments in this job when you realize that you are witnessing some of the great horrors of history,” Reid said on the show, adding: “This is the most irresponsible thing I’ve ever seen a president do.”

Trump, a long-time critic of science’s contention that masks save lives, even after his own diagnosis, refused to wear a mask, returned to the White House and exposed his staff to his infection. What a man! “Don’t be afraid of Covid,” he wrote. “Don’t let it dominate your life.” Tell that to survivors of the 210,000 Americans who have died because of this deadly disease.

And the oxymoron? His imminent defeat and downfall in twenty-seven days, when he is utterly humiliated, chewed up, and spit out by the American public, will bring unfathomable joy and happiness to the countless millions who despise him, one of whom is typing these words. Down for him and his family of grifters is up for millions who have suffered under his corrupt and malignant administration.

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